


"Transmat" Whut

by InuShiek



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Established Relationship, Fingering, M/M, Multiple Partners, NSFW, Oral Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slash, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InuShiek/pseuds/InuShiek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an accident in Perceptor's lab leaves Wheeljack and Ironhide miniature versions of themselves, they soon discover that they have an unique opportunity to experience something a little different in the berth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Transmat" Whut?

**Author's Note:**

> This is another of my old, long fics.

Three misfires on the practice range and disappointing results even with a direct hit has Ironhide cursing his gun. He had neglected to clean it after one particularly nasty battle with the Decepticons, which apparently gave all of the gunk and residue time to ruin the internal components and solidify. Cliffjumper had suggested that Ironhide take his weapon to Wheeljack for an upgrade and overhaul.

Ironhide had balked at first at the idea of letting Wheeljack tinker with his prized weapon, but then the red minibot had pointed out the upgrades the inventor had given to his own weapons, with only minimal explosions in the process.

So, now, Ironhide finds himself outside of Perceptor’s lab. He’d checked Wheeljack’s lab and office first, obviously, but the inventor is apparently working on a project for the microscope.

“Wheeljack,” Ironhide calls as soon as he opens the door, not bothering to knock.

The inventor jumps, hitting his head on the underside of a panel he had been working on. “Ironhide?” Wheeljack questions, sliding out from under the circuitry board, “What is it?” The mostly white and gray mech doesn’t mean to be rude, but his head hurts now that he’s smacked it.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Wheeljack. I didn’t mean to startle you, I was just going to ask if you could do something with my gun. It’s malfunctioning, and Cliff said you could work on it,” the red bot explains. Neither mech notices the sparks beginning to fall from underneath the component Wheeljack had head butted.

“Sure thing. Just let me finish upgrading this thing,” Wheeljack gestures to Perceptor’s machine, “And I’ll be happy to take a look and see what I can do.”

Ironhide nods, looking at the device Wheeljack is working on currently. “What exactly is that?” he asks.

“You remember when Perceptor, Gears, and Bumblebee shrunk down and went into Megatron for the Heart of Cyberton a while back? This is the gizmo that shrank ‘em- the transmat reduction beam. Perceptor doesn’t like having a two hour window before things return to their normal sizes, so I’m lengthening the time frame…hopefully without breaking it,” Wheeljack adds warily.

“Oh yeah,” Ironhide walks closer to the inventor, “Perceptor used it to fix one of my memory circuits.”

It’s at that moment that the machine emits a rather worrying sound as wires begin to arc and the sparks are now very noticeable.

“Aww,” Wheeljack’s shoulders fall when he sees this occurring, “Not again.”

He and Ironhide have just enough time to duck down and cover their helms before the whole device explodes.

__

“Hey! I think he’s coming around!”

Ironhide flinches when someone, sounded like Hoist, yells above him. Sluggishly, the red mech onlines his optics, only to see Ratchet hurriedly arrive and lean over him. “Ironhide, can you hear me?” the medic asks calmly, but Ironhide doesn’t miss the worry hidden underneath.

The red mech blinks, memory banks providing him with information about why Ratchet is worried once they boot up. “Of course I can hear you. The explosion wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Ratchet huffs, “Bad enough to make the two of you reboot and destroy half of Perceptor’s lab.”

“Is Wheeljack ok? He was closer than I was, I think,” Ironhide says.

“Oh, I’m fine, Ironhide,” Wheeljack says off to the side, “Sorry about this…”

Ironhide doesn’t try to turn to look at the inventor, his neck doesn’t feel all that awesome right now. “Ah, a little explosion never hurt anyone,” he jokes.

“Well…I’m not apologizing about that…exactly…” Wheeljack laughs nervously.

This time, Ironhide makes to turn his head, only to have Ratchet hold his helm still. The red mech can’t help but think the medic’s hands are larger than he remembered them being.

“Just don’t blow a circuit, ok, ‘Hide? We’re working on fixing this,” Ratchet says firmly.

“Fix  _what_?” Ironhide growls, trying to push Ratchet away so he can get off the medical berth and ignore how wrong his perspective seems to be. Normally, Ironhide wouldn’t struggle against his lover, but this is starting to make him nervous.

“Well…” the medic seems unable to continue, so Hoist finishes for him.

“You’re rather small, at the moment. The transmat reduction beam shrank you and Wheeljack just before the entire gizmo destroyed itself.”

Ironhide stops pushing on Ratchet. “How small?” he asks carefully, voice rather quiet.

“I was closer, so I got the worst of it,” Wheeljack begins, “I’m barely taller than Spike, but you’re only a little shorter than Bee.”

Ironhide growls, and Ratchet lets him go, though the medic seems to be ready to grab him again if he has to. The now rather small red mech sits up and looks down at his body. Suddenly, what he thought was a glitch in his optics, making things look bigger than they really are, turns into the realization that he’s just small. Very small. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he yells indignantly.

“Sorry, Ironhide,” Wheeljack repeats.

“It wasn’t your fault, Wheeljack,” Hoist assures the inventor.

Wheeljack manages a laugh, “It  _blew up_ , Hoist. If I’m present and it explodes, it was my fault.”

“Ah…well…alright, I’ll give you that. But think of it, Wheeljack,” Hoist says, sounding rather excited, “You’ll get to do some firsthand research into minibots!”

“Like what? We already know about minibots…not like they’re a mystery or something,” Wheeljack says, sounding confused.

“Well, no, but Optimus Prime is convinced that there are areas that need improvement so the minibots can more readily access them. The problem is that no one, not even Gears, will complain about a problem area. Besides, as a scientist, you should be thrilled about this,” Hoist points out to the inventor.

“This is fascinating an all,” Ironhide grumbles, “But how long will it take us to return to normal?”

Ratchet, much to Ironhide’s dismay, shrugs, “Wheeljack was increasing the length of time the beam’s effect lasted, but hadn’t gotten around to calibrating it. Of course, you two didn’t get hit very long by the beam, or you’d be the size of my little finger.”

“As soon as Ratchet lets me get out of here, I’m going to start trying to repair the gizmo so maybe we won’t have to just wait it out,” Wheeljack says, giving the medic a not-so-subtle hint to release him from the medbay.

“Alright, alright,” Ratchet grumbles, leveling a slight glare on Ironhide, “You. Stay right where you are. Wheeljack has more damage than you and gets priority, but that doesn’t give you permission to run off.”

Ironhide nods and Ratchet walks over to the berth the inventor is still lying on. The red mech lies down as well, trying to get some recharge so he won’t have to think about how tiny he is, or how awkward things are likely going to be between himself and Ratchet now that he’s so much smaller, whereas they used to share a frame type.

__

An Earth week later, Ratchet and Wheeljack are still shrunken down versions of themselves. They’re sudden change in size has been met with mixed reactions among the Autobots.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe thought it was hilarious that Ironhide is short, but they were often seen helping Wheeljack out. Most of the Dinobots started trying to pretend Wheeljack wasn’t there, likely unable to understand that he  _is still_  Wheeljack, he just looks different. The larger mechs, such as Skyfire, were very nervous with two more bots running around who could potentially be stepped on, especially in the case of Wheeljack.

The actual minibots, however, are just as divided as the other Autobots. Cliffjumper is convinced that Wheeljack shrank himself and Ironhide on purpose as a way to taunt him. Gears has been complaining that everyone is watching him more than usual, expecting him to do  _something_ \- what, he doesn’t know. Bumblebee is just as friendly as ever towards Ironhide and Wheeljack, and actually snapped at the twins once when they started teasing the red mech.

And then there’s Ratchet. Ratchet was always asking Ironhide if he was alright, suddenly nervous that the red mech was going to get hurt somehow. Especially when the two tried to be alone for a few moments. The medic could barely even give Ironhide a hug without thinking he was going to put a dent in the red mech or something. It got so bad, that the red mech has taken to avoiding his lover.

Currently, Ironhide is hiding in the rec room, knowing that Ratchet has his hands full patching up one of Powerglide’s wings. Wheeljack would have been here too, but he’s got his servos full with the transmat reduction beam right now, though he’s still not very close to having it repaired. The inventor has discovered that his size is hampering his efforts, but Perceptor has been helping as much as he can- wanting his lab repaired as quickly as possible.

The red bot catches Skydive watching him, and angrily takes a gulp of energon from his cube. “This wouldn’t be so slag awful if they wouldn’t stare,” he growls quietly to Bumblebee, who is sitting next to him.

“Cheer up, Ironhide. Things will be back to normal before you know it,” the yellow mech smiles.

“Easy for you to say. Optimus didn’t take you off the active duty roster,” Ironhide grumbles. Indeed, the Prime had put a stop to both Ironhide and Wheeljack from participating in any battles, stating that neither mech could really fight right now- not with such a drastic change in their sizes. Admittedly, Ironhide couldn’t tackle Thundercracker like he would have before, but he could at least take out one of the casetticons! When the red mech had said as much, Prowl proceeded to list of several more reasons why Optimus should remove the two from combat situations.

“Come on,” Bumblebee says, elbowing the red mech playfully, “I’m the one who goes after the cassettes. We can’t have you taking my job.”

Ironhide smirks, gulping down some more energon. “Still,” he sighs after a moment, “I don’t feel right just sitting around here.”

Bumblebee sighs now, leaning back in his seat and studying Ironhide. “What’s really bothering you, ‘Hide? A few stares never bothered you before,” he presses, sounding like he already knows the answer.

“It’s none of your business,” he says, no malice in his voice.

The yellow mech, however, actually growls. He grabs one of Ironhide’s hands and pulls. “Come with me,” he orders, dragging the surprised mech behind him from the rec room.

__

“What are you doing?!” Ironhide finally asks when the two are in an abandoned corridor of the Ark.

Bumblebee releases Ironhide, leveling a stern glare on him. “I know you’ve been avoiding Ratchet,” he begins, poking Ironhide in the chest, “And you shouldn’t. It’s crazy to pass up this chance.”

“Chance? What are you talking about? And how do you know I’ve been avoiding him?”

“I watch bots, it’s my job, ‘Hide,” Bumblebee says easily, referring to his position in special ops, “And by ‘chance,’ I mean this opportunity to blow Ratchet’s mind with a frag he won’t forget.”

Ironhide blinks, faceplates heating up. “B-but, we c-couldn’t interface!” he sputters.

“Why not? Think you’re too small?” Bumblebee asks.

Ironhide can’t only nod, optics wide and mouth hanging open. He never expected Bumblebee- innocent Bumblebee- to be telling him to go ‘face his lover…his much larger lover.

“I swear, you big framed bots have some weird ideas about us minibots. We’re not delicate, Ironhide, and Ratchet should know that, he just needs to be reminded, apparently.”

The red mech’s faceplates feel so hot that they must match his red plating by now. “I…um….” he mumbles, unable to complete a sentence. Ironhide doesn’t remember ever being this lost for words before.

“What, you’re on bottom? That’s what I’m telling you! Focus, ‘Hide,” Bumblebee knocks on Ironhide’s helm gently, “Go tackle Ratchet and drag him into a supply closet if you have to.”

“B-but…he’s a big framed bot, Bee…” Ironhide manages to say somewhat coherently.

Bumblebee sighs, putting a hand on either of the red mech’s shoulders and looking directly into his wide optics. “Let me tell you a secret, Ironhide,” he leans close to one of the other mech’s audio sensors, “I interfaced with Optimus.” Bumblebee abruptly spins Ironhide around and begins pushing him in the general direction of the medbay, “Now shoo! Go cheer up the Hatchet and wipe that scowl off your face, all in one fell swoop.”

Before he can argue, Bumblebee releases him and disappears, probably already half way back to the rec room by the time Ironhide realized it. The red mech just stands in the middle of the corridor, feeling like his processors are going to freeze up at any moment for three reasons. One:  _Bumblebee_  just told him to interface. Two: Bumblebee interfaced with _Optimus Prime_. Three: This  _might_  possibly work.

__

Later that day, Ironhide is leaned against a wall inside Ratchet’s quarters next to the door, waiting for the medic to come in once his shift is over. The Decepticons haven’t shown themselves in a while, so Ratchet shouldn’t have any repairs to make.

It had taken Ironhide a while to work up the courage for this. Not only is Ratchet much larger than he is now, but the red mech can’t help but get the sinking suspicion that his lover might not want him anymore.

Ratchet walks into the room, sighing and relaxing when the door slides closed and locks behind him.

Relaxing, at least, until a rather short Ironhide appears in front of him. The red mech grabs onto his chest armor and pulls Ratchet down, delivering a very satisfying kiss to the medic.

“Had an odd conversation with Bumblebee,” Ironhide says once they’ve broken apart, though he doesn’t release Ratchet yet.

“What are you talking about?” Ratchet asks carefully, kneeling down so he won’t have to continue to bend over and feeling decidedly awkward. He’s used to his lover being on exactly the same level as him, and this sudden and drastic change has left the medic unsure how to conduct himself.

“He knows you’ve been acting weird, and I’ve been avoiding you for it. Told me how to fix the problem,” Ironhide says, pressing his body against Ratchet’s now.

Ratchet immediately sees where his lover is going with this. “No. Absolutely not. Ironhide, this is a bad idea,” he says quickly, trying to gently push the red mech away.

Ironhide, however, only grabs onto the white mech and refuses to back down, “No, Ratchet. I’m not going to slagging break. Or is it something else? You don’t want me now that I’m small?”

“Primus, that’s not it, Ironhide,” Ratchet begins, “It’s just…every time you get hurt in a fight with the Decepticons, I nearly worry myself to death. I don’t know what I’ll do if  _I’m_  the one who hurts you.”

The red mech’s expression softens, now. “Ah, Ratchet, you worry too much. Besides, I’ve got the best medic on Cybertron right here,” Ironhide reasons.

“Not helping, ‘Hide,” Ratchet says warily, now refusing to touch Ironhide at all.

“Please, Ratchet,” Ironhide begins mouthing the medic’s neck, just like he likes, “I swear, I won’t be reckless like you say I usually am.”

Ratchet can’t help the shiver that runs through him as Ironhide sucks on a particular cable, making his core temperature spike. “You’re being reckless  _now_  Ironhide,” he declares stubbornly, even as one of his lover’s red servos reaches up to trace the edges of his chevron.

Ironhide growls into Ratchet’s neck. “You know I’m not weak, Ratchet, and we’ve hardly spoken, much less touched, in a week. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I miss you? What’s it going to take? Do I have to spell out exactly what I want to you?” he asks, other hand sneaking to one of the corners of Ratchet’s windshield and rubbing at the seam.

Now it’s Ratchet’s turn to growl. The medic’s hands grasp Ironhide’s sides, holding him still. “Promise me you’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel right?”

The red mech smirks victoriously into Ratchet’s neck, “Of course.”

Before Ironhide is quite sure what happened, he finds himself deposited in Ratchet’s lap on the berth. He gasps in surprise when Ratchet claims a desperate kiss, though it doesn’t last long. “Did it ever occur to  _you_ ,” the medic pants, running his servos up and down the red mech’s sides, “That I miss you too? I know you’re not weak, ‘Hide, but I don’t want to hurt you…and you’ve always been ‘on bottom’ as the humans would say. Do you… want to switch?”

Ironhide turns to straddle Ratchet’s legs and grinds his panel against his lover’s. “No. The more I think about this, the more fun it sounds. We’ll just be careful,” he says, leaving no room for further argument. Not that either mech really wanted to argue anymore when their panels are already heating up.

Ratchet groans, his fingers stroking at the seams on Ironhide’s now smaller, but still familiar, frame, “Just remember… tell me, ok, ‘Hide?”

“Promise,” Ironhide shivers, already feeling his spike pressurize and valve lubricate at the thought of what Ratchet’s cable will feel like now that he’s been shrunken down to minibot size.

As gently as he can, Ratchet lifts Ironhide from his lap before depositing him on his back farther on the berth. The medic uses one hand to continue stroking the red mech’s seams, fingers too large to fit into them to caress the wires that reside underneath, while the other hand begins to rub Ironhide’s panel.

Bucking his hips at the contact, Ironhide opens his panel. He may have promised not to be reckless, but he never promised to be patient. A surge of pleasure runs through the red mech when Ratchet moans at the sight of the tiny valve leaking lubricant.

Ratchet isn’t particularly patient either, not in the mood for teasing touches tonight- not when he’s barely even seen Ironhide for an Earth week- not when his lover is being so trusting- not when the small bot has actually agreed to be careful about this. The white and red mech leans down to kiss Ironhide, moving his free hand to support his weight on the berth.

Ironhide wraps an arm around the medic’s neck, holding him in place as their glossas twine together, while the other hand once again rubs at the red chevron on Ratchet’s helm. Both their cooling systems click on, but their core temperatures continue to rise, regardless.

When a single, cautious finger begins to circle his valve, the red mech throws his helm back with a moan. Ironhide releases Ratchet so the larger mech can sit upright once more.

“And you’re sure about this?” the medic pants, voice rough. His finger never stops rubbing the rim of Ironhide’s valve, spreading the lubricant around and stimulating more to be produced.

Instead of replying right away, Ironhide reaches down and grabs the medic’s servo. With a happy groan, the red mech forces Ratchet’s finger into his valve. “If you ask me that one more time, I may be forced to take drastic measures,” he threatens hollowly as he shutters his optics at the pleasure in his valve.

Ratchet releases a groan of his own when he feels just how tight Ironhide really is. A shiver runs through his frame when he imagines what his cable would feel like buried in that constricting heat.

Shaking his helm to make himself focus on preparing his small lover, Ratchet nods to acknowledge Ironhide’s threat. He eases his finger out to the first joint before just as carefully easing it back into the red mech’s valve. Ratchet knows that one finger isn’t likely to hurt Ironhide, but it’s the principle of the thing, slag it.

Ironhide’s vents begin working even harder to cool his frame off. Something about having a much larger mech looming over him is making his temperature skyrocket- the fact that it’s his Ratchet doing the looming makes this even more thrilling. “Frag,” he pants, “Quit stalling.”

Ratchet huffs, free servo beginning to trace the seams in the red plating beneath him once more. “I’m the medical professional here, ‘Hide. I’ll stall as long as I want,” he says, though he doesn’t really mean it. He’s not sure he can wait any longer than absolutely necessary, actually- not with Ironhide purposefully clenching his valve around the invading digit like that.

Before Ironhide can say anything else, Ratchet begins to press a second finger into his valve. The red mech moans at the stretch, willing his valve to relax as his engine gives a strong rev. “Slag,” Ironhide gasps.

Ratchet stills his hand when both fingers are seated within Ironhide, letting the mech adjust. The white mech licks his lips, stifling the moan that tries to slip out of his vocalizer. Before, when the pair had interfaced, they had always fit so perfectly together since they shared a frame type. This time, however, it will be an entirely different experience for both of them, if it works.

Ratchet lets himself imagine his cable buried in the smaller bot, Ironhide’s legs spread wide to accommodate his lover with his valve stuffed and stretched to the limit, squeezing and constricting as the normally gruff mech writhes wantonly beneath him.

An impatient huff from Ironhide brings Ratchet back to the present before he can get too carried away and he hurriedly opens his optics, not realizing when he’d shuttered them. His gaze inevitably drifts down to the small mech’s interface array, and he can’t stop the moan from escaping this time. Already, Ironhide’s valve looks more stretched than it normally is when the pair interfaces, but it could just be because the mech is so unusually small and the medic’s optics are playing tricks on him.

Ratchet finds himself fairly panting along with Ironhide, the RPMs in his own engine increasing steadily as his core temperature continues to rise, despite his cooling system’s best efforts.

Unable to look away, Ratchet watches his fingers carefully pull out ever so slightly before pushing back into the tight valve, hoping to Primus that they will be able to actually interface. A shiver of anticipation runs through the medic as heat flashes through his circuits to settle behind his still closed panel. Rather recklessly, Ratchet scissors his fingers to further stretch Ironhide and prepare him for another finger.

Ironhide arches up with a sharp cry of pleasure. While he’d begun to think that being stretched might feel good, he hadn’t imagined it would feel slagging  _amazing_. He knows that there’s more on the way too, which makes his valve clench in anticipation. “Ah, Ratchet!” he moans, hips thrusting further onto the invading digits.

“Relax, Ironhide,” the larger mech says breathily, vents hitching when the red bot clenches down on his fingers, “This will go faster if you’d relax, I promise.”

Ratchet gently scissors his fingers more, beginning to thrust with them at the same time. Ironhide moans, making no effort to quiet himself in hopes of encouraging his lover to hurry this up. Not that he wants to admit it, but the red mech is close to overloading at it is and he’s not sure he can hold out for the main event.

A third finger begins to rub along the rim of Ironhide’s valve and his engine gives another rev. “Ratchet!” he cries out, grasping at the white chassis above him to pull the medic into a searing kiss. Ironhide stretches his glossa out to meet Ratchet’s, never releasing his hold.

Ratchet, however, pries himself away from Ironhide and stills his hand, afraid he’s hurt his lover. “You ok?” he asks, still hovering close to the red mech’s face.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Ironhide growls, legs wrapping around the medic’s hips to keep him from trying to back away.

Ratchet huffs out a mixed sigh and laugh, relief flooding through him. He rights himself once more before his fingers resume stretching Ironhide’s valve. Very slowly, watching Ironhide’s faceplates for any sign of pain, Ratchet adds a third finger.

Ironhide had been about to tell the white mech to hurry up, but what started as an impatient growl quickly turns into a strangled moan.

Ratchet stills his hand once more when Ironhide’s valve clenches, knowing that, this time, it’s very likely a reaction to pain. “Relax, ‘Hide,” he murmurs, his gaze darting down to the red bot’s port just to reassure himself that he hasn’t done any obvious damage.

Ironhide offlines his optics, panting heavily to try to cool his systems. There’s pain, but there is also a very heavy dose of pleasure- processor stalling pleasure. His helm falls back to hit the berth as he dimly recognizes Ratchet’s words.

The red mech starts trying to make his valve relax so Ratchet will start moving those fingers. He can’t remember ever feeling this stretched. A loud moan accompanies a shiver as Ironhide again finds himself wondering at how amazing it feels to be under his larger lover.

Slowly, the medic can feel Ironhide relaxing. Just as carefully as before, Ratchet thrusts his fingers farther into the small bot.

When the only reaction is a pleasured cry and a thrust of hips, Ratchet takes it as proof that Ironhide isn’t damaged. He withdraws his digits and thrusts them back in a little faster, engine revving when the tiny mech arches up. Ratchet, decision made, sets a steady pace with his fingers, slightly spreading them apart every once in a while to give extra stretch.

It doesn’t take long for Ironhide to clutch at the white mech, forcing his optics to online again to look up at him. “Ah! Ratchet! I-mmm-frag!”

Ratchet’s engine gives its own rev when Ironhide overloads. The red mech seems taken by surprise, having expected Ratchet to make him wait. Ratchet pins down the small hips, keeping Ironhide from thrashing and harming himself. He doesn’t still his fingers, though. Instead, he continues to rub the constricting valve walls, stimulating extra lubricant to be produced as well as prolong his lover’s overload.

Ironhide eventually settles, though he looks rather confused. “What are you doing?” he asks, the fact that Ratchet hasn’t even opened his panel not escaping him.

“Well,” Ratchet begins, spreading the three digits again and earning a yelp from Ironhide as his sensitive valve is stimulated again so soon after an overload, “Now that you’ve overloaded, there’s more than enough lubricant for what you want to try.”

“Ratchet!” Ironhide scolds, though he doesn’t sound upset at all, “You know I don’t like to take when I’m not giving.” Indeed, the red bot has never liked overloading unless he can take Ratchet along with him.

“None of that,” the medic hushes the small mech, “I’m still not convinced that this is a good idea at all, but, since you’ve guilted me into it, we’ll do it my way. Understand?”

“But-” Ironhide begins to argue, but a warning glare from Ratchet makes him smirk instead, “Yes sir, Chief Medical Officer.”

Ratchet grunts, not dignifying that with a response. Instead, he focuses on Ironhide’s valve, trying to gauge if it’s safely stretched. It’s still incredibly tight, which makes the medic lick his dermas, but the valve still gives when he presses, which means that it’s not at its limit yet. This  _might_  possibly work. “You do realize that, no matter what, you’re going to be sore…and I won’t be giving you any sympathy when I see you walking funny,” Ratchet smirks now.

“Will you just hurry up and frag me!”

“Easy, you’re venturing towards ‘reckless,’ Ironhide,” Ratchet chides gently, even though it does seem that the red mech may actually be ready anyway, “And I swear, if something hurts, and you don’t tell me, I will seriously consider reformatting you into an ice cream truck.” Toasters are much more effective in making a bot wary, but an ice cream truck is degrading and won’t impede performance of duty.

“I heard you the first time, Ratchet, and I’m promised, didn’t I?” Ironhide grumbles, clearly impatient now that Ratchet has completely stopped moving his fingers and is still pinning his hips down.

“Yeah, you did. I’m still worried though,” the medic sighs, leaning down to deliver a sloppy lick to Ironhide’s windshield, “But I trust you, ‘Hide.”

Ironhide places a hand on either side of Ratchet’s helm and pulls the medic into short kiss. “I trust you too, or I wouldn’t be here,” he revs his engine and clenches his valve meaningfully around Ratchet’s digits, “ _Now_  will you hurry up and frag me?”

Giving his lover an affectionate smile, Ratchet sits upright once again. This time, though, he pulls his fingers out of Ironhide’s valve, and a fresh wave of lust burns through him at the amount of lubricant that spills out and the quiet moan from the small mech. Ratchet finally retracts his plating, sighing in relief when he releases his pressurized cable from its housing. Ironhide’s engine gives another eager rev when the white mech positions himself between his legs and he feels the large cable  _just_  brush against his valve. “Ratchet!” he tries to get more contact with the much larger bot.

Ratchet has to pause, cycling his vents to try and calm himself. This is suddenly looking very much like that small fantasy the medic had allowed himself to have earlier… Ironhide’s legs are indeed spread wide to fit on either side of Ratchet’s hips… Ratchet is having to grip the smaller mech’s hips to keep him from squirming… That valve looks so deliciously small…

The medic quickly shutters his optics to keep himself from losing his self-control. He’s been able to keep his arousal in check so far, and it would do no good to get careless now. “Relax…and for Primus’ sake, stay still, Ironhide,” he says, voice unsteady.

When Ironhide actually makes an effort to do as Ratchet told him, the white mech ever so slowly presses his cable forward.

Ironhide’s mouth falls open at the blunt pressure, thicker and more substantial than those fingers had been. A loud moan leaves the red mech’s vocal synthesizer when the connector hub enters him, only to turn into a frustrated growl when Ratchet stops. Ironhide has never been the most patient of mechs, especially when it comes to interfacing. He looks up into the medic’s faceplates, confused by the expression. “Ratchet, I’m fine,” he gasps when Ratchet’s cable shifts slightly inside him, “Ah! More, please, Ratchet. I can handle it.”

“But I can’t! Slag it, just hold still,” the medic growls, silencing Ironhide, as his white and red frame trembles, “Ironhide, this feels so amazing, but if you don’t pipe down…” Ratchet doesn’t finish his threat- can’t finish it. Not when the end of his cable is encased in the tightest, hottest, slickest valve he could ever have imagined. It is quite possibly the hardest thing he’s ever done to not immediately burry his entire cable in Ironhide, but the knowledge that his lover will definitely be damaged by that stills his hips.

Control regained over himself, Ratchet makes himself focus on Ironhide once more. The smaller mech is panting, engine revving sporadically, and tremors running through his frame. Trusting that his lover will tell him to stop if needed, Ratchet begins to carefully ease his cable deeper into Ironhide’s incredibly tight valve with small thrusts.

Ironhide alternates between moans and soft cries as Ratchet cable continues to stretch him more than he’s ever been before. He does his best to remain still and keep his valve from tightening further around the invading cable, lest Ratchet stop again, but it’s harder than he thought it would be. All the red mech wants to do is bury Ratchet’s cable in his valve in one quick thrust, but the medic’s grip on his hips has only tightened, preventing that from happening. “Ratchet!” he cries out when the hub of the medic’s cable hits a sensor node toward the back of his valve.

Ratchet’s willpower snaps and, with cry of his own, slams his cable the remaining distance into Ironhide. Thankfully, that distance wasn’t very great.

The pair moan loudly, frames trembling and engines revving. Ironhide’s valve now clenches around the white mech’s cable, drawing another moan from them. “Ratchet, oh, Ratchet, slag,” Ironhide pants out, unable to think past how perfect it feels to be so stretched- to be so very filled- and to know that Ratchet is feeling the same bliss.

Ratchet is in a similar state. He can no longer remember anything outside of the realm of Ironhide- how so very pleasure-filled the red bot’s voice his- how that impossibly tight valve continues to constrict around him- how Ironhide is trying to thrust his hips to get still more sensation.

The medic has, however, recovered some of his common sense, so, instead of immediately beginning to frag his lover into the berth, Ratchet holds still. Both mechs continue to pant, a moan breaking through every now and then, while they try to get their wits about them once more.

“Are you ok?” Ironhide is finally able to ask.

Ratchet huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “Yeah, ‘Hide.” He leans down, still careful, and kisses Ironhide lovingly.

The red mech reaches up to rub at Ratchet’s chevron when the kiss ends, persuading the medic to hold still. “You don’t know how glad I am this worked, Ratchet,” he says quietly, delivering a quick kiss to the medic’s cheek.

Ratchet smiles fondly at Ironhide, yet again finding himself wondering at how strange it is for the mech to be so much smaller. “I love you, ‘Hide,” he says, looking directly into the lust-filled optics of the mech beneath him seriously.

Ironhide beams, that being the first time Ratchet has said so since the explosion in Perceptor’s lab. Instead of replying verbally, he slams his still smiling mouth over Ratchet’s in a sloppy kiss as he purposefully tightens his valve and gives a very powerful rev of his motor.

The larger mech cries out into Ironhide’s mouth, hips jerking involuntarily forward. Taking that as a sign that he’s stalled enough and that the red bot’s patience has completely worn out, Ratchet revs his own engine as his nips at Ironhide’s dermas. Drawing out slightly, Ratchet cautiously presses forward once more.

When Ironhide only responds with another moan, Ratchet increases the pace, withdrawing more and more each time before he presses his cable back into his lover.

Ratchet works up to a steady speed, making sure his thrusts aren’t rough. Apparently, though, it doesn’t suit Ironhide.

“Slag, Ratchet!” he cries out, “I think we’ve established that I won’t break!”

“If you’d like, I could stop you from walking tomorrow,” he smirks, delivering a firm lick to the small neck cables, “But, I see your point.”

Ironhide shivers in anticipation when the medic’s hands change their grip to give the white mech more leverage. If Ratchet would frag him like normally-

The small mech nearly screams when Ratchet slams his cable into him, back arching sharply and servos searching for something to hold onto. “Yes! Ah! Ratchet!” he cries out, hearing the large bot moan above him.

Ratchet nearly overloads at Ironhide’s reaction. He uses his grip on the small hips to pull Ironhide down onto his cable in time with his thrusts. “’Hide,” the medic manages to say coherently. Ironhide’s fingers finally curl around the medic’s to grasp as their hips clang together now.

Both of the Autobots know they’re close. This is too intense to drag out. Their mouths meet for another passionate kiss, swallowing each others’ cries.

Everything is too much. His legs are forced wide to make room for Ratchet. His valve is stretched to the limit, clenching even tighter to drive the pair wild. His back is arching so much that his windshield is scraping against Ratchet’s larger one. His glossa is warring with Ratchet’s. Ironhide overloads first with a loud cry, arms wrapping around the white chassis above him and holding his medic close as pure pleasure crashes through him.

Ratchet’s own overload hits the instant that Ironhide’s valve becomes impossibly tighter, rippling around his cable in spasms. He kisses his red bot harder, adding his own cry into the mix as his servos clutch desperately to the small, thrashing hips, and the lovers ride out their overloads in bliss.

__

Ratchet onlines his optics as Ironhide does the same. Both are panting, having broken their kiss, to try and cool their frames off.

Carefully, Ratchet pulls his cable free of the red mech’s valve, both of them moaning at the aftershocks of pleasure. “Don’t get testy,” Ratchet smiles, “But are you ok?”

“You worry too much, Ratchet,” Ironhide smiles up at the medic, “I’ll be sore, but it’s not like I’ll mind it at all.”

The larger mech laughs at that before he rolls them both onto their sides. Ratchet pulls Ironhide close to his own chassis. “I missed you, ‘Hide,” he murmurs above the red helm as he retracts his cable into its housing and both their interface panels close. There will be time for cleaning up later.

“Missed you too, Ratchet,” Ironhide says as engine rumbles contentedly, “How long do you think it’ll take for me to get back to my regular size?”

“I don’t know,” Ratchet sighs, “Wheeljack’s working as fast as he can, though. I don’t think he likes being human sized.”

“I was just going to ask…” Ironhide wriggles in the medic’s arms until he’s looking into his optics, “When it’s fixed, do you think we could talk Perceptor into shrinking me every now and again?”

__

“Hey, Wheeljack,” Bumblebee greets his old friend the next morning, “How are you?”

“Hey, Bee,” the tiny mech replies, climbing up to sit on the same bench as the yellow minibot to refuel with a sigh, “Tired. Why does everything have to be so high up and hard to reach?”

Bumblebee laughs, patting Wheeljack on the back, “Ah, you get used to it, I guess.”

“No offense, but I can’t wait to get back to my normal size.”

“None taken, buddy. None taken,” the yellow mech smiles, knowing that Wheeljack is at a disadvantage with the way the Ark is set up.

The pair sit in comfortable silence until Wheeljack finishes his energon rather quickly and bids the minibot a farewell. He’s been putting in a lot of extra time trying to fix the transmat reduction beam device. Most mechs are either still recharging or have already started their duty shifts by now, leaving the rec room relatively empty. Bumblebee is an early riser, but doesn’t have a duty shift for another four cycles.

It isn’t long after Wheeljack left, however, when Ironhide and Ratchet walk into the nearly empty rec room. Bumblebee hides his smirk behind his cube of energon when he catches a very subtle wince on Ironhide’s faceplates.

The pair get their own cubes of energon before joining Bumblebee. “Good morning, guys,” he smiles innocently.

Ratchet leans forward, a rare playful glare leveled on the yellow mech. “I blame you, Bumblebee,” he says.

The minibot promptly dissolves into fits of giggles.


	2. Hey There, Jackie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack is overworking himself to fix the transmat reduction beam, and Perceptor suggests that he take a break. Luckily, the twins have a plan to make him relax for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the twins' nabbing mechs for a quick frag comes from [Deathcomes4u](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1151938/Deathcomes4u)'s "The Cure" (chapter 4 to be precise)

“Perhaps you should take a break?”

Wheeljack sighs, vocal indicators barely flickering at Perceptor’s suggestion. The inventor hasn’t managed to get the transmat reduction beam to work again, so he and Ironhide are still miniature versions of themselves.

While Wheeljack’s circuits are frazzled from this experience, Ironhide has settled in rather well. The white mech rubs his optics, “Maybe you’re right.” He disentangles himself from the mass of wires that are hanging out from under the device that had caused this whole fiasco, doing his best to ignore how short he is compared to Perceptor. “I could use some energon, anyway,” Wheeljack rationalizes his stopping the repairs.

“You could use some recharge, too,” Perceptor points out gently, “Go take a break, Wheeljack, just relax. You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“I need to fix this though, Perceptor. It’s my fault that half your lab is ruined.”

The red mech kneels down and puts a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder. “I mean it. Take the rest of today and tomorrow to clear your head. You can’t work when you’re this stressed,” he says kindly.

“Hard to relax when you’re as tall as most bots’ knees,” Wheeljack jokes, a small smile behind his mask.

“Indeed,” Perceptor smiles, “I believe I heard over the comm. chatter that Bumblebee got kicked out of the monitor room by Red Alert. Why don’t you try to find him?”

“Thanks, Perceptor.”

__________

Wheeljack finds his yellow friend sitting on the couch in the rec room. He’s watching a rerun of  _As the Kitchen Sinks_  on the television Spike had insisted that they  _needed_  to have. “What did you do to get fired from monitor duty and how can I duplicate the results?” Wheeljack asks lightly, climbing up to sit next to Bumblebee.

“Hey, Wheeljack,” Bumblebee smiles back, “He said I looked too suspicious. Red doesn’t like special ops types too much, you know?”

“Right, that glitch still bothers him, I guess?”

“I guess. It’s nothing personal, he just doesn’t trust a spy to watch security monitors,” Bumblebee explains, a grin forming, “And you know I’m  _so_  disappointed that I can’t have monitor duty for six cycles.” Wheeljack laughs. “Anyway, did Perceptor fire you?” the yellow bot asks, curious as to why his friend isn’t working on the transmat reduction beam, “You’ve barely spent a nanoclick out of that lab in ages.”

The smaller of the pair sighs, settling himself on the couch, “I guess you could say I was fired, temporarily, at least. Perceptor wants me to spend the rest of today and tomorrow relaxing. I can’t relax when I have to jump to get myself some energon, though.”

“I see your point, but the Ark wasn’t built for unusually large or small bots. It’s firmly medium sized,” Bumblebee muses.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Wheeljack shakes his helm, “I guess Optimus was right. The Ark could use some upgrades.”

“Ah, the ship’s alright, you’re just not used to it,” the yellow bot pokes Wheeljack playfully.

That’s when the twins stroll in.

Bumblebee and Wheeljack watch as the two mechs walk directly up to them, standing directly in front of the couch and looming over the small bots. It’s obvious that they’ve got something planned, good or bad remains to be seen.

“Heya, minibots,” Sideswipe smiles, which doesn’t make the pair feel any better.

“How are you on this fine afternoon?” Sunstreaker purrs.

Bumblebee knows those expressions. They mean that the twins are looking for an interface partner, and have already set their sights on a mech. Usually they go for Bluestreak, but there are several Autobots who will go for a round with the twins. There’s a rumor that Sideswipe even managed to talk Perceptor into swapping paint a couple of times.

“No,” Wheeljack almost squeaks, recognizing the twins’ intentions already. He’s ‘faced with them before, and normally wouldn’t turn down a repeat performance, but there’s no way he’ll let the twin terrors drag him off this time- not when he’s so tiny in comparison.

“Aww,” Sideswipe pouts, “But we’ve hardly seen you in forever! We miss you, ‘Jackie.”

“Come on,” Sunstreaker lifts Wheeljack off of the couch, “This will be fun.”

“Bee?” Wheeljack looks to the yellow minibot for help, receiving a bewildered blink in response. Shooing the twins away before a prank can get underway is one thing, but it’s nearly impossible to get them to relinquish their hold on an interface partner. They would never force a bot, of course, but Wheeljack hasn’t resisted enough for them to believe that the tiny mech  _actually_  doesn’t want to interface.

“You coming, Sideswipe?” Sunstreaker asks over his shoulder, already half way to the rec room door.

“Right behind ya, bro,” Sideswipe smirks, scooping Bumblebee up and hanging him over his red shoulder, “Lead the way.”

“Hey!” Bumblebee yells in surprise as he’s carried out of the rec room.

__________

“But, I have patrol duty,” Wheeljack lies, this being the third one he’s told during the short trek to the twins’ shared quarters.

“No you don’t. We checked. Perceptor fired you and Optimus has you off of active duty,” Sunstreaker smirks.

“I have to get back to monitor duty, my break’s over,” Bumblebee tries, the first time he’s spoken.

“Nope. Red Alert kicked you out, and you don’t have another shift until patrol with Cliffjumper tomorrow afternoon. We checked that too,” Sideswipe grins, though the yellow minibot can’t see it, still being slung over the larger mech’s shoulder and all.

“Aww, come on, guys,” Bumblebee sighs.

“What’s the problem? The last time we kidnapped you, you overloaded so hard you rebooted.”

Bumblebee’s faceplates heat up, “That’s not the point, Sunny.”

“B-Bumblebee?!” Wheeljack sounds surprised, apparently having been unaware that the twins had targeted the minibot before.

Tracks passes by in the hallway going the other direction, doing a double-take when it registers in his CPU that the twins have got Bumblebee and a miniaturized Wheeljack half-way into their room. Bumblebee offers a smile and wave, stifling a laugh when the Autobot stumbles, dropping the data pad he had been carrying. The door shuts and locks, leaving Tracks to gape at a closed door.

When Sunstreaker puts Wheeljack down, the tiny mech immediately backs up, nearly tripping over a data pad on the floor. “I’ll just be on my way…” he says nervously, gaze shifting to the door.

“Relax, ‘Jackie, sheesh, we’re not going to hurt you,” Sideswipe says, putting Bumblebee down now.

“Did you miss the part when I got shrunken? Happened a few weeks ago….?”

Sunstreaker smirks, “I noticed, but I had to point it out to Sides a couple of days later.”

“Hey!” Sideswipe takes a playful swing at his twin.

“But seriously,” Sunstreaker says, “We already thought of that.”

“There’s no way I’ll interface with you-“

“You don’t have to, ‘Jack. That’s what Bee’s here for.”

“What  _I’m_  here fo- oh… Oh!” Bumblebee catches on, a giddy smile forming on his face.

“You get to sit back and enjoy the ride, ‘Jackie,” Sideswipe purrs, optics darkening a bit.

__________

Wheeljack isn’t sure what happened next (Sunstreaker had grabbed him again?), but he ends up on his back on the berth with Bumblebee leaning over him, yellow hands fairly pawing at his panel. It takes a lot of willpower on the inventor’s part to keep the metal from retracting. “Bee?” he questions.

The yellow minibot doesn’t respond. Instead, he wriggles his fingers into a seam on the smaller mech’s hip.

Wheeljack cries out, panel snapping open on its own at the stimulation. He can just hear Bumblebee’s own panel retracting over his own exclamation, and he pulls his knees up and spreads his legs, trying to give the other Autobot more room.

Bumblebee’s engine gives a soft rev as Wheeljack spreads himself out. Optics darkening, he manually releases the inventor’s cable from its housing, and it almost instantly pressurizes as lubricant seeps from his valve.

Bumblebee finds himself remembering something that happened a long time ago, back at Iacon. “Wheeljack, do you remember that time we got overcharged and nearly ‘faced?” he asks.

The smaller mech nods, “I’m still sorry about that, Bee.” Wheeljack remembers how he had burned off enough of the high grade just in time to stop himself from opening the yellow panel beneath him. He’s sure that, if the two friends had actually interfaced, he would have injured the minibot.

“I’m just sorry you didn’t go through with it,” Bumblebee smirks, rubbing a finger around the rim of Wheeljack’s soaked valve, “This is a little backwards, but it will have to do.” He leans down, delivering sloppy licks and kisses to Wheeljack’s mask. The three larger Autobots know that Wheeljack doesn’t like taking off the mask, so they do not even ask. Bumblebee presses his finger into the white mech’s valve.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are sitting on the edge of the berth, cooling fans roaring at the show the two small mechs are giving them- not that they plan to sit on the sidelines for long. “This…” Sideswipe pants, “Is the best idea….Ever.” Sunstreaker doesn’t respond.

“Nnnh, Bee!” Wheeljack gasps, servos reaching up to burry themselves into the yellow minibot’s own seams, pulling a similar sound from him.

Bumblebee does his best to focus on getting Wheeljack ready, but is finding that difficult when the tiny mech’s fingers slip so deep into his armor that they stroke transformation cogs. “Slag, Wheeljack,” he moans, forcing himself to sit back on his heels so Wheeljack can’t reach him. If he gets too revved up, Bumblebee knows he won’t last through what the twins have planned- not that Wheeljack has been made privy to said plans. To keep the white bot from questioning his actions, Bumblebee adds a second finger into his valve.

Wheeljack moans, vocal indicators flashing brightly, when Bumblebee sinks his fingers in him. Even before the accident in Perceptor’s lab, which has him making repairs all the time, the inventor has been too busy to socialize much. Interfacing takes away from his job more than the white mech prefers, despite how amazing it is. He revs his engine, encouraging Bumblebee to continue. Two answering revs remind the tiny mech that the twins are watching intently, which only serves to fuel his lust.

Bumblebee complies with the wordless request, and begins thrusting his fingers into Wheeljack. He can tell it’s been a while since the inventor has interfaced. Carefully, he scissors his fingers, stretching Wheeljack’s tight valve. “Relax,” he says, voice deeper and engine running louder than normal.

Sunstreaker’s patience runs out and he settles himself in behind Bumblebee. He wraps his mouth around one of the minibot’s sensor horns, drawing a surprised cry from the yellow mech.

Bumblebee’s engine revs now and he stills his fingers, leaving them buried in Wheeljack’s valve. “Sunny,” he pants out, frame trembling, “You’re going to have to-” The minibot cuts himself off with a moan when Sunstreaker uses one of his own fingers to tease his recessed cable. “Sunstreaker,” he tries to scold, and the golden twin actually pauses, “Let me pay attention to Wheeljack, then you can have your fun.”

Even though Bumblebee told the larger mech to back off for the moment, he has to bite back a whimper at the lost contact when Sunstreaker obligingly moves back to sit next to his twin once more, a pout gracing his features.

Without warning, Bumblebee nearly pulls his fingers out before thrusting them back in hard. Wheeljack cries out with both surprise and pleasure, “Bee, what are-”

“Don’t worry about Sunny yet. He just needs to learn to keep his hands to himself, is all,” Bumblebee smiles, leaning down to kiss and nip at the white bot’s neck.

“Yet?” Wheeljack repeats, now sounding apprehensive.

“Easy, ‘Jack,” Bumblebee slides in a third finger, relishing the shiver of pleasure that runs through Wheeljack, “This will be fun….Once we get to the main event.”

Wheeljack releases a shaky moan when Bumblebee starts thrusting his fingers. In his pleasure-clouded processors, the inventor can’t understand what the twins or Bumblebee have planned- not that he especially cares anymore when those fingers spread apart in his valve. “Bee!” his fingers cling to the minibot’s yellow plating, engine giving another rev as his back arches, “Quit playing around, would you?”

Bumblebee smiles against Wheeljack’s neck before he sits up. “Since you asked so nicely,” he teases while he extends his cable from its housing.

Sunstreaker once again appears behind the yellow minibot, hands firmly grasping Bumblebee’s hips and holding them still. “I’ll take it from here,” he smirks as Sideswipe scoots closer.

Both Lamborghinis’ optics are dark, and their vents are struggling to keep them cool.

Wheeljack squirms, vocal indicators flashing with both a silent moan and apprehension when Bumblebee’s fingers wriggle inside his valve and the gold twin gives him a predatory look, “Sunstreaker, I-”

“We told you,” Sideswipe interrupts, knowing the white mech is going to say he won’t interface with the twins, “That’s what Bee’s here for. Relax.”

Bumblebee’s faceplates heat up now, “I’m the buffer, ‘Jack.”

“He’ll figure it out,” Sunstreaker smirks, “Now, Bee, get your fingers out of the way.”

The yellow minibot follows the command, engine rumbling at the whimper of loss from the mech beneath him. The beetle places both hands next to Wheeljack’s shoulders to support himself while Sunstreaker tightens the grip on his hips. Bumblebee doesn’t try to loosen the golden bot’s hold, he’s played this game several times with the twins. Sunstreaker is in control right now.

Finally, logic makes an appearance in Wheeljack’s processors, and that logic gives him a pretty good idea what’s about to happen.

Bumblebee allows Sunstreaker to guide his cable to Wheeljack’s valve. The twins’ engines give identical revs as the golden mech presses Bumblebee forward slowly.

Wheeljack gasps, resisting the urge to thrust his hips in an effort to take in more of Bumblebee’s cable. That tiny bit of logic still remaining warns the inventor that it will likely hurt, and that would spoil the mood considerably. That being said, it takes a lot of willpower. Sure, the white bot has thought about ‘facing his yellow friend, but never thought it actually would happen- certainly not with him being stretched by the minibot’s cord while Sunstreaker relentlessly continues to push him forward.

Bumblebee’s logic isn’t fairing so well. The yellow bot groans as his cable sinks into Wheeljack’s tight valve. It’s not often he gets to spike someone who is actually smaller than him, and his engine revs powerfully. Bumblebee’s hips try to thrust in faster, but Sunstreaker keeps a firm grasp on him.

Clenching his valve, Wheeljack reaches up to dig his fingers beneath Bumblebee’s seams, drawing a loud cry from the yellow mech as hidden sensors are stroked.

Finally, Bumblebee’s hips meet Wheeljack’s with a quiet ‘clang’. Both of the smaller Autobots moan- Wheeljack from being so utterly filled, Bumblebee from being buried in the tightest valve he can remember.

“ _Primus_ ,” the inventor moans, his valve already beginning to clench and ripple around Bumblebee’s cable.

Bumblebee lowers himself over Wheeljack, careful to keep his weight off the smaller bot while he collects his wits. “You can say that again,” he pants before he begins licking and nipping at Wheeljack’s vocal indicators.

“Hey, now,” a red arm works its way between the two bots and pulls Bumblebee away, “Don’t forget about us.”

Sunstreaker decides to ignore his twin, just to annoy him. Instead, he puts his face close to Bumblebee’s help, breathing hot air over one of the sensor horns. “How much ‘attention’ are you going to need?” he purrs, remembering that’s what the yellow bot had called preparing Wheeljack.

Bumblebee smirks, “None.”

“Primus,” Sideswipe says, licking his dermas, “You’ve been with your mystery lover again.”

“We love it when that’s your answer,” Sunstreaker adds, releasing his grip on Bumblebee’s hip with one hand so he can use a finger to spread the minibot’s lubricant around his soaked valve.

Bumblebee moans, engine revving at the stimulation, but the amusement never leaves his expression. The twins have spent ages trying to guess just who it is that the yellow minibot has been interfacing with, but are no closer to the truth than when they started. Bumblebee has been tempted to tell them that it’s actually Optimus Prime, if only to see if the twins will glitch from surprise.

His thoughts are cut short when Sunstreaker thrusts his large cable into Bumblebee, hilting himself in one fluid movement.

Bumblebee cries out, head falling forward, as he is simultaneously filled and his cable is pushed ever-so-slightly deeper into Wheeljack.

“Bumblebee?” the inventor moans from the movement, but can’t help but worry at how the twins hadn’t even bothered to stretch Bumblebee’s valve at all.

Sideswipe leans close to Wheeljack’s helm to answer for the yellow mech. “You see, ‘Jackie,” the red twin gives a firm, playful lick to the inventor’s mask, “Bumblebee’s got this mystery ‘facing partner who leaves his valve nice and stretched for a couple of days. We’ve been dying to find out who it is so we can go thank him properly, but our little spy is tight-lipped about it. Maybe you can get him to tell us, hmm?”

“Worry about that later, Sides. Right now, we’ve got two minibots who are in need of a good frag,” Sunstreaker says, giving one thrust into Bumblebee, “You up for it, Wheeljack?” Bumblebee manages to focus his dark optics on the white mech beneath him and shift his weight to one arm, leaving the other hand free to stroke the heated white and green chassis.

It takes all of 0.5 astroseconds for the inventor to decide that talking about Bumblebee’s interfacing habits can wait. “Slag yes,” he almost moans, spreading his legs farther and tilting his hips for a better angle.

The inventor starts to pull Bumblebee down, considering actually retracting his mask so he can cover the yellow bot’s mouth with his own, but Sideswipe intervenes.

“Now, that’s hardly fair,” the red twin pouts. He’s at his limit for look-but-don’t-get-touched.

Bumblebee uses his free arm to pull the mech in close, venting hot air over the red pelvic armor. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, Sides?” he pants before firmly licking one of the seams of Sideswipe’s panel.

Sideswipe has just enough time to position his knees so Wheeljack isn’t in danger of getting squished before his panel retracts. The yellow minibot releases the red twin’s cable directly into his mouth, making the mech’s hips buck at the sudden pleasure.

With his twin now included, Sunstreaker withdraws from Bumblebee’s port, pulling the yellow bot backwards and out of Wheeljack, before thrusting both of them forward again.

The two minibots’ engines give identical revs, and Wheeljack cries out. Bumblebee’s sounds are muffled by Sideswipe’s cable, but the red twin appreciates the vibrations.

Bumblebee’s servo gropes blindly for seams in Wheeljack’s plating, working his fingers in to directly stroke sensor nodes.

Wheeljack’s valve spasms in pleasure, and he pets Bumblebee’s plating, earning himself a rev from the yellow minibot and a buck of his hips. The inventor’s gaze inevitably drifts to Sideswipe, though, seeing as how the red twin is kneeling almost directly over his head. Lubricant from the mech’s valve is dripping to the berth just above Wheeljack’s helm, but he can hear, and see, it clearly.

Sunstreaker guides Bumblebee back again for a stronger thrust, and all four mechs moan this time. Sideswipe thrusts his cable deep into Bumblebee’s mouth, and the inventor can’t help the heat that rises to his faceplates when he processes how practiced his yellow friend seems to be at this. The golden twin makes him abandon all intelligent thought, however, when he increases the pace of his thrusts, driving them all towards overload.

Bumblebee moans loudly around the cable buried in his throat, a small part of him wishing he could see Wheeljack’s expression. Instead of trying to take a peek, though, the yellow bot trails his hand down the inventor’s chassis to wrap around his cable and pump it in time with Sunstreaker’s thrusts.

Wheeljack bucks into Bumblebee’s hand, but forces himself to remain focused on Sideswipe right now. He puts one hand on one of the red thighs, while the other reaches up to that dripping valve.

Sideswipe’s head falls back with a loud cry escaping him as Wheeljack thrusts two fingers into his valve without preamble, “Holy slag, yes!”

Sunstreaker can tell that Bumblebee is close, so he increases the pace drastically, intent on pushing the two minibots over into overload before he and his twin follow.

Wheeljack’s fingers spasm in Sideswipe’s valve at the sudden flare of pleasure and he cries out at the same time as Bumblebee. The inventor adds a third finger, pumping them fast into the red twin’s soaking wet valve.

Sideswipe uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch one of Bumblebee’s sensor horns, and that’s the beginning of the end.

Bumblebee all but screams, hips bucking wildly between Sunstreaker and Wheeljack. His hand tightens around the inventor’s cable during his overload.

Wheeljack’s back arches hard, overload triggered by the larger minibot. The white mech’s fingers thrust deep into Sidewipe while he thrashes on the floor, his hips rising to meet Bumblebee’s.

Sunstreaker groans, burying his cable in the spasming minibot two more times before he overloads, his goal of pushing the two smaller mechs over first accomplished. He has just enough presence of mind to remember to wrap an arm under Bumblebee to support the yellow bot, lest he fall onto Wheeljack.

Sideswipe’s overload arrives when Bumblebee swallows around his cable while he’s trying to cry out. The added tightness to the vibrations send the red twin straight into a reboot.

Sunstreaker can’t help but smirk when his brother falls over backwards, offline. Bumblebee didn’t fare any better, but nor has Bumblebee been known to boast about his interfacing superiority to the majority of the  _Ark_ ’s crew.

Shaking his helm, the golden twin withdraws his cable from Bumblebee, relishing the way his valve tightens in response, even when the minibot is offline. “Primus,” he pants quietly.

“Nng,” comes Wheeljack’s reply, who promptly wraps his legs around Bumblebee’s hips to keep Sunstreaker from removing the minibot. He’s still enjoying the small shocks of pleasure in his valve at how stretched he is.

“Have fun?” the gold twin purrs, amusement in his voice.

Bumblebee takes that moment to boot back up. “Mmm,” he groans quietly, optics flickering online to see Wheeljack’s chassis underneath him. The yellow bot braces his arms on the floor at either side of the inventor’s shoulders to support himself.

Sunstreaker releases his grip on the minibot and moves around to study his twin. He gently slaps Sideswipe a couple of times, forcing him to boot up more quickly.

Wheeljack can feel his faceplates heating up again as he pulls his yellow friend closer with his legs. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so much fun being a minibot?” he pouts.

Bumblebee laughs, “You scientist types don’t like to have things handed to you, remember? You like to figure stuff out on your own. I thought if you saw how well Ironhide and Ratchet are getting along you’d get the hint, but you practically barricaded yourself in Perceptor’s lab. I had to bribe Percy to get him to kick you out of there for a couple of days.”

The inventor blinks. “You….are one devious minibot….” he smiles beneath his mask, knowing his friend can see it in his optics.

“You can say that again…” Sideswipe mumbles with a tired smirk, sounding like he’s still only half online.

“Wait,” Wheeljack turns his head to fix his gaze on the twins, “You were in on it?”

Sunstreaker shakes his helm, “No, but I’m not surprised at all. Bee’s a scheming little thing when he wants to be.”

“Hey, now, it’s not my fault you guys strutted into the rec room and grabbed us,” Bumblebee points out with a smile. Indeed, he had only planned to invite Wheeljack, Ironhide, and Ratchet to join him for their evening rations to see if that would make the inventor catch on. The twins setting their sights on Wheeljack was blind luck.

“….We do not ‘strut’….” Sideswipe pouts.

Wheeljack laughs at Sideswipe’s tone before flipping over on top of the yellow bot, being sure to keep Bumblebee’s re-pressurizing cable safely buried in his valve. Bumblebee makes a startled cry when he finds himself pinned under the inventor. “As a scientist,” Wheeljack smiles behind his mask, “I do not like having relevant information withheld. It impedes the scientific process.”

The twins’ engines give identical revs again, and Bumblebee can only gape up at Wheeljack when the inventor starts to ride his cable.

“Best idea ever,” Sunstreaker finally agrees with his twin.


End file.
